


ECHO

by boobeika



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Drugs, Dubious Morality, Dystopia, Execution, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Prostitution, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 15:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobeika/pseuds/boobeika
Summary: The gap between the pure and the tainted is ever-growing, until a heartless slave master and a rookie cop step into the slums in search of an escaped young slave.





	ECHO

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be fooled by AO3 declaring this chapter one- it is only the prologue.  
> Read the tags. They're there to warn you. I will warn you in the notes for the specific topics of the chapter, but it'd be wise to check the tags nonetheless.  
> Also, I'm a whore for constructive criticism, so do leave a comment if you enjoyed, or if you didn't.
> 
> WARNING: Death.

On the horizon, beneath a sky painted red, a little boat braves the stormy seas. Water crashes up against it, creeping over the sides and flooding the tiny vessel, but still the sailors keep on rowing. The screams of those who came before, whose forgotten stories ended beneath the waves, echo in their ears, the call of the ocean beckoning them, inviting them to sink into the depths, but still they keep on rowing. The land is so far. The last sight of a living being was days ago, weeks, perhaps, and with each laboured push they float further and further from home, from the safety and solace they find in the familiar. But still, they keep on rowing. 

The sky, a vision of colour and light, a timeless masterpiece which shelters the living and the dead alike from the horrors of the unknown beyond, fades to darkness, the spectacle of light morphing into a phantom of the night, a sheet of looming darkness dotted with shimmering stars. The seas are plunged into darkness, their lamps flickering and dying in the cold air. The faint light bore from the shine of the moon casts a slight illumination across their boat, but it cannot save them from the darkness ahead. Still, they keep on rowing. 

Hours pass, moments and memories slipping from their fingers with each moment lost to the night, threats and horrors masked by the cover of darkness. When day comes, the sun shining into their tired eyes with the chirp of a wandering bird, it is welcomed with cheers and a sip of wine. The sailors, high on the euphoria of a momentary safety, lose hours to games of quiet cards, until they spot it. 

First, it is the boy. Standing on the edge of the boat, tiny boots shaking above the seas. His eyes widen when he spots it, looming in the distance. It seems to beckon, the allure of its mystery utterly intoxicating, far more than the wine he has yet to taste. The flashing lights, towers rising above dainty white clouds, the smell of wine and food wafting through the air above a distant tune, call for him, invite him to step into their embrace and bloom, prosper with all they offer. 

The others soon catch sight of his discovery. The cards are dropped onto the floor, long forgotten when they slide down the rocking boat and beneath a box of food, and their drinks fall to the floor with a soft crash. They take tentative steps towards the boy, gentle hands reaching out to lift him off the edge despite his quiet protest. 

The magic of the island ahead overtakes them, pulls them in with its charms, invites them to edge closer until they become one with its wonder. Two men retreat into the boat and oars begin to crash into the waves as they row with all their might towards the island. The joy and wonder of the island beckons still, they struggle to resist the urge to dive into the waters and swim towards it. Utterly intoxicated, each movement becomes a chore as their minds fill with fantasies of life on the island. Still, they keep on rowing. 

An old man sits on the edge of the boat, the boy held tight in his embrace. The boy snuggles into his chest and he presses a kiss to his cheek. Despite years spent among factories and smoke, the old man's voice is soft, tender, loving. 

"Dear boy," he mutters, "this is the life I wanted for you." 

The boy smiles. He always had the most beautiful smile. "Papa," he says. "This is the life we'll live together." 

"Forever and ever," the old man says. 

In the man's warm embrace, the boy is lulled to sleep in an instant, lured into slumber by soft lullabies, sung to him since infancy. He was always a deep sleeper, so he doesn't hear anything. 

Doesn't hear the cries of joy when the boat pulls into the shore. Doesn't hear the shouts of the islanders, the hurried footsteps, the sound of the sailors being thrown into the sands. Doesn't hear the cries of "invaders!". Doesn't hear the crying, begging of his grandfather, his crew members. Doesn't hear the gunshots. Doesn't hear the sound of his body chucked into the waves. Doesn't hear anything. 

He never knew life on the island. Never knew where he would have ended up, had he stepped past the beach and into the streets beyond. He never saw the young boy, six years old, maybe seven, pull his hand from the grip from his mother. Never heard him ask, "why did the boy go into the waves, Mom?"

Never saw the woman smile, life the boy into her arms and press a kiss to his chubby cheek. Never heard her sigh and say, "Nothing to worry about, my love." 

He never saw her lead Chanyeol away, his tiny feet racing along to keep up with the large paces of his mother. Never saw her sigh, gently stroke the bracelet on his wrist naming him Chanyeol, Pure, Watcher. 

"One day, you will do far worse."


End file.
